Tromp Heights
by AdmiralVonNelson
Summary: A Far-Future Romance, starring Ronald Tromp as the God-Emperor of Mankind, and Zoe Quine as Catherine. I haven't actually ever read Wuthering Heights before- reading it as I go. BTC donations to 33fXboTnT66yJCQtBoQccgMjXPH5zyfr4D
1. Chapter 1

Tromp Heights  
A Far-Future Romance by  
Admiral Von Nelson

Chapter I

IT is the 41st Millenium. For more than two hundred centuries, God-Emperor Ronald Tromp has sat immobile in the Oval Office upon the Rich Mahogany Throne of America. He is master of mankind by the will of the Racist party (formerly known as the Republican party), and the great flag of America flies over countless alien landscapes, illuminated by the light of slightly fewer, yet still countless alien suns. His armies are without number as well, expanding outwards from Terra in search of new races to oppress. He is kept alive by the resurrection-magic of the Christians, who use their prayers and strange rituals to channel the tears of the vanquished and oppressed into the twisted theotechnological monstrosity known as the Privilege-Metatron, which serves as the Emperor's heart. Great fleets of warships cross the interstellar void, powered by the raw magical force of Privilege, and guided by the Emperor's prime directive:

"Make America Great Again."

The cybernetically-enhanced warriors of the National Rifle Association form the core of Emperor Tromp's expeditionary forces. They are augmented and assisted by the high priests of the Inquisition, who seek to ferret out atheists, heretics, pagans, LGBTQ+ individuals, and so-called Communists wherever they may be found. To be a woman in such times is to be one amongst untold quadrillions; it is to live in the cruelest, most oppressive, most sexist regime anyone could ever imagine. This is but one tale from this time (amongst untold quadrillions of equally valid and meaningful stories which all deserve to be heard). Forget the power of Tolerance and Empathy, for these principles simply no longer exist. Forget Equality, forget Justice, forget Individuality, forget all Love and Understanding, save that which you hold for the God-Emperor. In this grimdark future, there is only war.

My name is Mr. Brockwood, and I have just returned from a visit with the selfsame God-Emperor which I have previously described. Through a curious string of coincidences that, much like countless things in this world, are too numerous to count, Ronald Tromp is my landlord (in addition to being the God-Emperor of mankind as previously mentioned). In all of the quadrillions of square miles which make up America, I do not believe that I could have found a more luxurious and well-appointed domicile than that within which I presently reside. I of course owe all of my wealth and privilege to my father, as is the custom with my people; it was he, and not I, clearly, who saved the Emperor's half-life during the third great Battle of the Wall in 2017 by leaping in front of a rock thrown by a vicious Illegal. By way of thanking my father for his noble sacrifice, the Emperor injected him with pure Privilege, drawn directly from the Privilege-Metatron. From that day on, the Brockwoods were afforded every opportunity to get ahead, culminating only recently in my invitation to live at Tromp Tower itself, the most luxurious lodging-house in all of the American Empire.

The Tower is isolated from the mighty steel and glass spires of the megacity of Tromptor, built on the last ten-mile stretch of undeveloped land on Terra. It is within these hallowed grounds that the entirety of my tale shall take place, for it serves as a perfect haven for ones as curmudgeonlyly appointed as the Emperor and I; quite the pair are we, and a capital fellow He, if you can get past the power-armor and battle-scars, of course. I venture that he little understood the violent patriotism which swelled in my breast as I beheld His eyes withdraw suspiciously beneath the golden mane of His hair as I approached on my BMW Privilege Cycle. "Your Supreme Majesty?" I queried boldly as I dismounted from my steed. His Excellent Eminence nodded curtly in response.

"I am Mr. Brockwood, your new tenant, your Supreme Excellence. I do myself the honour of calling upon you as soon as possible following my arrival from the Colonies, where I have been employed as an Overseer of your most holy work until recently, when I received notice that the Thrushcross Suite had become available for lease. I returned to Terra with all speed in the hopes that I might avail myself of the opportunity to exercise my Privilege in such pleasant surroundings. I do most sincerely hope that my arrival and subsequent presence in this place has not inconvenienced you, your Excellency. I heard over the subspace transmitter that you-"

"The Thrushcross Suite is absolutely available," interrupted the Emperor, golden mane flowing luxuriously in the gentle breeze of the grounds. "However, I must insist on checking your Privilege before I can allow you inside. We have certain standards which must be upheld in order to Make America Great Again."

"Make America Great Again!" I and everybody within earshot echoed in a steamy fervor of patriotism. I proffered my iPrivilege smartwatch to the Emperor, so that He might check my Privilege levels, but to my surprise, a sly smile cracked the living God's face, and He waved the watch away.

"Fuck that Chinese-made crap. I can tell you're a stand-up guy just by looking. Come on in and have a look around!" I briefly considered protesting that China had been a nuclear wasteland since the Consumer Electronics Coup of 2020, and that all products consumed by the Empire's citizens were technically manufactured in America, but noticed a shadowy wrinkle form upon the Holy One's magnanimous brow as the thought crossed my mind. I decided then to refrain, and saw a much gentler, kinder smile form upon the Emperor's face. I had heard rumors of His psychic powers, stretching back to before the attacks on the Twin Towers, which He had predicted in all His great wisdom, but I had never experienced them in person, until now.

He surprised me then, calling upon His great stores of Privilege to activate the hoverjets surgically grafted to His body and hovering on up the drive, calling out in a booming voice as He went, "Jose, take Mr. Brockwood's Privilege Cycle; and bring us a bottle of fresh tears." I was momentarily concerned that this "Jose" represented the sum total of the Emperor's domestic servants, contrary to what I had been told and led to believe, however my fears were soon assuaged, as a veritable horde of rehabilitated Illegals poured forth from behind the various landscape features which enriched the approach to Tromp Tower and made short work of the Emperor's requests. First, they spirited away my very imposing 14-Cylinder diesel Privilege Cycle, and then they all began to cry, passing a green-glass bottle back and forth among their ranks to catch every last delicious tear. Having overcome my initial doubts, I stepped forward with my faith in the Emperor renewed, and smiled broadly as the ranks of Jose parted like the waves of the Red Sea before Moses at His and my passage.

One step brings us into the grand lobby of Tromp Tower. The floor is made of polished elephant ivory laid over (and this, friends, is not something everyone knows) a floor of layered hardwoods, ebony, red oak, yew, and cypress, to be exact. The symbolism of this elaborate installation is entirely lost on me. Members of the NRA's elite "2nd Amendment Squad" occupy fortified positions placed strategically throughout the entryway. Progress through the entryway is streamlined by a maze of plasmoelectric fences which guide potential supplicants at the Altar of all Privilege towards the TSA checkpoint which blocks passage through the velvet-curtained opening in the solid obsidian wall which forms the rear of the lobby. As we near the front, we see various species of Terrorists lingering near the front of the line. We briefly see, that is, for as they come within reach of the God-Emperor's piercing vision, they are reduced to a fine red mist as they encounter the aethyric field formed by his psychic manspreading.

"Jose!" cried the Emperor in a booming, cybernetically-enhanced voice, "Come clean this up." My naturally superior sense of hearing detected the thundering of a thousand footsteps, as Jose approached at speed. The Emperor ascended to the ceiling using his hoverjets and sat perched upon the diamond chandelier that hung there. As he watched, casually vaping 100mg nicotine juice on an American-made Surric X 200 Watt regulated device, vintage 2015, Jose filled the maze in an orderly fashion and the gore-spattered area was thoroughly scrubbed. As I watched, much to my surprise, I saw that various elements of Jose were actually cleaning the plasmoeelectric fences, being reduced to cinders in a matter of picoseconds.

At first, I was horrified, the rampant waste of human life and effort in pursuit of cleanliness following a senseless murder spree seemed somehow...obscene. But then, as I watched on, to my delight I saw the ashes of damaged sub-Joses being swept up in dustpans and carried through the horde, forming the fertilizer for the planters some of their number carried above them on long poles. Time seemed to slow and speed up at the same time, and in my altered vision I saw Jose in all its/their glory. The planters grew various crops, which fed the sub-Joses, who lived in vast cities constructed within bags of holding carried by the working Jose. In these cities, the sub-Jose lived, and loved, and died, and bred. They cycled between our world and the cities in an unending stream of perfect biomechanical productivity. Noticing my interest, the God-Emperor wrenched my corneo-cortical implants open and spiked my mind with knowledge.

Jose, I now know, is the perfect collective intelligence. Following the Invasion of Mexico in 2020, CIA scientists performed unholy experiments on the native population, hybridizing them with construction-nanites and selectively breeding Oppression transmitter/receivers into their brain structures. After thousands of years, Jose had emerged- a symbiotic hive-mind entity wired entirely for self-preservation through production. It all made sense to me now. This was how Tromp had made Mexico pay for the Great Wall. A stunning triumph of industry, not to mention deal-making.

The world swam before my eyes as I returned from a poorly-defined narrative framing device, and I beheld the way through the gruesome abattoir of the TSA checkpoint standing open to my passage. Emperor Tromp hovered just above my left shoulder, and I saw luminescent filaments of Privilege holding the various torture devices in safe positions, so that we might pass unmolested. I found myself drawn forward, towards the velvet curtain, which swung back and enveloped me in the tender embrace of sleep.

I came to before a great fireplace, well appointed with bric-a-brac themed after the Pacific Northwest. A taxidermied space-moose head hung above it on a 16-foot square titanium plate, which was bolted to the wall with six-inch rivets. The gentle whirring patter of fluid being poured across fine crystal drew my attention back to the room, and its two occupants: the God Emperor Tromp himself, wearing a stunning smoking-jacket, crafted from the finest orchalcum thread, and a towering bitch-woman, clad in nothing but a collar, pouring brandy into the Emperor's snifter with her tail. I raised my eyebrows in surprise, for I would have never before thought that the Emperor's sexual tastes ran in such an esoteric direction. This gentle muscular action was by no means lost upon the Emperor. The bitch, apparently taking notice of some subtle corresponding change in her master's demeanor, let out a low growl, and dropped to all fours. The decanter of brandy tumbled from her tail and onto the floor with a ringing crash. In her natural pose, she was an imposing and deeply primal sight, fangs slick and slavering, eyes flashing red in the firelight. I found my erotic interest subtly and unexpectedly stirred at the sight of the beast's mammary glands hanging low below her stately frame, and I reached out to pat her behind the ears. My caress provoked a long, guttural snarl.

"You'd better let the dog alone," growled the Emperor in unison with his pet, "She's not accustomed to affection- not kept for a pet." I briefly consider remarking upon how his utterance so shattered my description of it that it should never have been recorded in the first place, but choose to press on with the plot instead. "I shall fetch Jose," he said, a twinkle in his eye, before teleporting out of the room and locking it from the outside. The unfortunate by-product of this action was that I was left trapped in the room with the bitch, who had inexplicably begun to perform what appeared to be some kind of interpretive dance routine. As she swayed hypnotically...things...began to swim hypnotically into view around her. More dog-person/things. Hundreds. The space was entirely filled by warm, hairy bodies, writhing about me like a fur coat in heat. Through this hedonistic nightmare, the bitch-woman approached me like an unholy avatar of anthropocanine lust, worming her way through the pulsating pile which covered us on all sides. Not anxious to come into contact with their fluids and fangs, I sat still amid the musky melee; but, imagining they would scarcely understand tacit insults or blows, I unfortunately indulged in winking and making faces at the faces in the crowd, not of my own volition, mind, but as a natural and reflexive response to the gratuitous obscenity which I beheld as I surveyed the scene. Some turn of my physiognomy so irritated madam that she suddenly broke into a fury and leapt on my lap. I flung her back, and hastened to interpose the en-suite bar between us. This proceeding aroused the whole hive: more than two-dozen more four-footed fiends, of various sizes, ages, and levels of respective endowment issued from hidden dens to the room in which I stood, figuratively and literally wrestling with my dignity.

As the wave of flesh surrounded me, I felt my heels, the hems of my clothing, and my legs to be the peculiar subjects of the assault; and parrying off the larger combatants as effectually as I could with the poker, retrieved dexterously from the aforementioned well-appointed fireplace, right from beneath the stern and impassive gaze of the space-moose, I succumbed to humility and cried aloud for my God to come save me from this Hell. My faith was well-rewarded, as the God-Emperor burst through the door and to my rescue, sweeping me simultaneously off my feet and out of the lusty jaws of the bitch-woman and her ilk. As we flew through the vast galleries of what I believe to have been the coat closet of Tromp Tower, the Emperor fixed me with his loving gaze and inquired, "What the devil is the matter?"

"What the devil, indeed!" I cried, nearly beside myself with blasphemous fury. "The herd of possessed swine could have had no worse spirits in them than those animals of yours, Your Holy Eminence. You might as well leave a stranger with a brood of tigers!"

To my eternal surprise, the look which came upon the Great God's face at this outburst was not one of justifiable rage and fury, but one of surprise and genuine concern. "My dear man," he began, "I was under the impression that you had gone to College in the early years of the first decade of my reign- traveled back in time, I heard, to study with a particular professor whom you held in high regard, no?"

"Well, yes..." I stammered, "but..."

"I merely assumed that you had contracted a taste for the relationship structures of the time, my good man. The youth of that age were so burnt out on traditional family values that they had to twist them in all sorts of directions to get their rocks off. From what I understand, the welcome I arranged would have been considered tame in that day. I do however cry your pardon for my mistake."

"I..." I stammered, taken entirely aback, "...well, I...it's really no trouble, your Excellence."

"Allow me to make it up to you, my good man. Here at Tromp Tower we have no need for money, no. That is for the Citizens to play with. Here we operate on an entirely different system- the economy of favors."

"The economy of...favors?"

"Yes. Essentially, within these vast and towering walls that pierce the heavens like some kind of mighty drill weilded by a war machine, no money is exchanged for goods and services. Everything you can imagine can be had at no financial cost to you. However, you must be prepared to pay back the cost of your living here through performing various acts for other inhabitants."

"This is beginning to sound like some kind of dystopian fable," I opined nervously.

"Ah, I can see how you might get that impression. However, since you were inconvenienced by my well-meaning gesture of welcome, you may now draw upon my account of favors, which you will find is quite limitless for one as tame and upstanding as yourself." At this last, we alighted at the door to the Thrushcross Suite. I was quite flummoxed at the fact that we had somehow bypassed the usual methods of transit employed within a hotel, such as stairs and elevators, and had yet somehow ended up many thousands of stories off the ground in a matter of moments, but assuaged my incredulity by reminding myself that I had made my journey in the company of a living God. At that moment, that same God set me down once again on my feet and relinquished his firm, but gentle embrace. I felt a brief moment of incompleteness as I felt his touch recede, but it passed, and I invited him inside.

"Take a glass of wine?" I inquired, unlocking the door with my thumbprint.

"Certainly," he replied, "after you!" He gestured for me to proceed with a majestic sweep of his begauntleted left arm. I entered my suite and began the long trek up the driveway to the house. As I trudged, I saw the Emperor soar majestically above me in the gathering twilight of the room's binary suns, reaching the house well in my advance. As I approached, I saw the lights come on, one by one, and the chimney began to smoke cheerily. By the time I arrived, the Emperor had prepared a beautiful spread of artisan cheeses and candied meats for us to indulge in with our wine. We seated ourselves before my roaring fireplace, and I filled the glasses with a Blandy's madeira of very good vintage. The Emperor broke the ice with a witty remark upon the present lack of a bitch-woman to save me the trouble of pouring, and within a short term He and I relaxed a little in the laconic style of chipping off our pronouns and auxiliary verbs, and lazily worrying a topic of some small interest to the both of us - a discourse upon the relative strengths and weaknesses of the various Alien races which inhabited the American Empire. I found Him to be even more intelligent than I had suspected, for he was able to speak at length and with much expertise regarding all of the various topics upon which our conversation touched. Before I bid him good-night, I was encouraged by our camaraderie to proffer my availability for a similar engagement on the morrow. His Eminence seemed at once to accept and decline my offer to stream video and chill on the morrow, a trick of the wine and his unique diction. I presume. I have made up my mind to go, notwithstanding. It is astonishing how patriotic I feel when I am in his presence.


	2. Chapter 2

Tromp Heights  
A Far-Future Romance by  
Admiral Von Nelson

Chapter II

YESTERDAY afternoon set in misty and cold within my room, beneath the twin suns which rotated in lunatic ballet within my room's sky. I had half a mind to spend it by my study fire, instead of wading through the heath and mud to my door, and from there take six trains, two airplanes, a zeppelin, and finally a transdimensional molecular transporter to get to the penthouse of Tromp Tower, known to those in the know as "Tromp Heights." On coming up from dinner, however, (N.B. - I dine between 3735 and 3835LSTST (Local Standard Thrushcross Suite Time); my housekeeper, a buxom serving-lass of good Redhead stock, knows her place and serves me promptly) - on mounting the stairs with this lazy intention, and stepping into the room, I saw a servant-girl, also of good Redhead stock, on her knees surrounded by brushes and coal-scuttles, and raising an infernal dust as she extinguished her flames with heaps of cinders. This uncouth spectacle drove me back immediately; I took my helmet, and, after several hours of continuous transport, made much easier by my newfound TSA Preclear status (a by-product of the Emperor's Favor), I arrived at the God-Emperor's garden-gate just in time to escape the first feathery puffs of smoke from the flyers of the Matriarchy's monthly orbital protest-bombardment.

On the bleak hill-top upon which Tromp Heights stood the earth was comprised of carbon nanotubes, and covered with a black frost of fresh blood and biomatter imported from the killing fields every day. The air was nonexistent, for not only did Tromp Heights stand spatially within the peak of Tromp Tower, well out past the farthest extremities of Terra's atmosphere, it stood outside of time, within a single five-dimensional slice of being. The events which took place here all took place at a single point in the cosmic gestalt, and are best described as "having had been swoovlery," but for the sake of the mere Millenials reading this, I shall make the effort to render them unto you in a sequential, consecutive order. That also explains why there was no air there. Being unable to disarm the whirling death axes covered in radioactive ebola which barred by entry, I moved several miles to the left and hopped the fence, and, running up the skull-paved causeway, bordered with acres of ritually disfigured corpses impaled on spikes, eventually got to the door, upon which I knocked vainly for admittance, til my knuckles tingled, and, for some reason, a few dog-person/things began to howl within.

"Wretched inmates!" I ejaculated mentally, much to the dismay of a passing aethyr-wisp, "you deserve perpetual isolation from your species for your churlish inhospitatlity. At least, I would not keep my doors barred in the day-time. I don't care - I will get in!" So resolved, I grasped the latch and shook it vehemently. Failing to achieve any meaningful result, I unholstered my assault weapon and reduced the door to a fine red mist.

"?!En un lugar de la Mancha?!" shouted a nearby cluster of Jose, projecting it/their head/s from behind a nearby ten-mile-tall statue of the God-Emperor, currently under construction. In my surprise, I swung my assault weapon around and murdered untold millions of sub-Joses, most of them old women and children. I blanched momentarily before remembering that this was all part of Jose's miraculous self-regeneration system.

"Is there nobody inside to open the door?" I screamed over the sound of myself reloading my assault weapon in panic at my impending cultural enrichment, without the Emperor to protect me.

"!De cuyo nombre no quiero acordarme, no ha mucho tiempo que vivía un hidalgo de los de lanza en astillero, adarga antigua, rocín flaco y galgo corredor!" shouted Jose in unison.

"Oh God, give me strength!" I cried, slamming another magazine home and working the bolt on my assault weapon in order to continue my assault on the inclement, immortal horde that was Jose.

"Una olla de algo más vaca que carnero, salpicón las más noches, duelos y quebrantos los sábados, lantejas los viernes, algún palomino de añadidura los domingos, consumían las tres partes de su hacienda!" intoned what appeared to be a quaint Southwestern marketplace, replete with street stalls, kachina dolls, and food vendors. "El resto della concluían sayo de velarte, calzas de velludo para las fiestas, con sus pantuflos de lo mesmo, y los días de entresemana se honraba con su vellorí de lo más fino," muttered the quaint Southwestern marketplace, before becoming absorbed within Jose once more. Jose then retreated back behind the giant statue it had been working on, and troubled me no more.

The ash from the Matriarchy's orbital bombardment of ironic faxes of blog posts began to drive thickly. I seized another magazine to express my anger at the lowered visibility by firing indiscriminately at the sky while yelling patriotic slogans, but before I could do so in a satisfactory manner, I caught sight of a strapping young man in the nude, holding a laser-pitchfork, doing squat-thrusts in the football stadium behind the house. He hailed me to follow him, and, after marching through marching-band practice, and a paved area containing a factory for processing the ashes of vanquished enemies into diamonds, and past several giant black obelisks of impressive size and girth, we at length arrived in a huge, warm, cheerful apartment, of impressive size and girth. I had not seen this apartment before, but it's size and girth were so impressive that it could only belong to a God, and knew only one God. Ronald Tromp, God-Emperor of Mankind.

The apartment glowed delightfully in the radiance of banks of active crematoriums, busily converting the bodies of the vanquished into carbon for use in the diamond-processing machines. Near the table, which was laid with all manner of exotic meats from cloned extinct animals bred at extravagant cost solely to be tortured, murdered, and consumed, I was pleased to observe an individual of such stunning grace and beauty that it could only be overshadowed by the beauty and vitality of the God-Emperor Himself in the flesh. It was the High Empress Ivanka Tromp. I bowed and waited, thinking she would bid me take a seat. She looked at me, leaning back in her chair made from human skulls and remained motionless and mute.

"Rough weather!" I remarked. "I'm afraid, Empress Tromp, that I blew the ever-loving fuck out of your door just now. Your servant startled me and I was afraid for my life." She never opened her mouth. I stared - she stared back, her exceedingly special eyes piercing my mind with all the welcoming warmth of an industrial nuclear demolition charge. I looked away in vain, for she kept her eyes on me in a cool, regardless manner, exceedingly embarrassing and disagreeable.

"Have a seat, sailor," said the beautiful young nude man, gruffly. "The Emperor will be in soon."

I obeyed and hemmed, and called to the villainous bitch-woman whom I have now learned to call "Juno," who deigned, at this second interview, to move the extreme tip of her tail, in token of owning my acquaintance.

"A beautiful animal!" I commenced again. "Do you intend parting with the...other ones, madam?" I gulped, then, as the lunatic anthropocanines who had comprised the body of my welcoming committee on the prior night began once again to sway into vision with each gentle flick of Juno's luxuriously-appointed tail.

"They are not mine," said the amiable hostess, in a far more repellant manner than the Emperor's simultaneously gentle and firmly paternal demeanor.

"Ah," I murmured nervously, "Your favorites are among these, then?" I continued, turning to a glass cube full of cat-persons.

"A strange choice of favorites, to be sure!" she observed scornfully.

Unluckily, it was in point of fact not a glass cube full of cat-persons, but rather a glass cube containing a heap of dead rabbit-persons. I hemmed once more, and drew closer to the hearth, repeating my comment on the wildness of the evening.

"You should not have come up," she said, rising and reaching from the chimney-piece two of the painted canisters which contained the apartment's store of K-cups.

Her position before was sheltered from the light; now, I had a distinct view of her whole figure and countenance. She was slender, and apparently scarcely past girlhood, despite being thousands of years old. She had the most exquisite face I have ever had the pleasure of beholding; small, feminine features, very fair- unquestionably of True American descent; flaxen ringlets, or rather golden (for they were, in truth, made of spun gold), hanging loose on her delicate, feminine, porcelain neck; and eyes, had they been agreeable in expression, that would have been irresistible: fortunately for my susceptible heart, the only sentiment they evinced hovered between scorn and a kind of lustful desperation, singularly unnatural to be detected there. The canisters upon the hearth of the crematorium nearest us were almost out of her reach; I made a motion to aid her; she turned on her leg-extensions, retrieved the canisters, and returned to her normal height, then she turned upon me as a Merchant might turn if anyone attempted to assist him in counting his credits.

"I don't want your help," she snapped; "I can get them for myself."

"I beg your pardon, your Highness!" I hastened to reply.

"Were you asked to coffee?" she demanded, tying a skimpy negligee about her bikini-clad form, and standing with a Keurig packet poised over the Keurig machine.

"I should be glad to have a cup, for after all, the best part about waking up is..."

"Were. You. Asked?" she spat through a sweet girlish smile before giggling girlishly as well.

"No," I said, half smiling. "You are the proper person to ask me."

She flung the Keurig machine through the wall, and resumed her chair in a girlish pout; her forehead corrugated, and her red underlip pushed out, like a child's ready to cry.

Meanwhile, the young man had slung on to his person a decidedly shabby upper garment, and erecting himself before the blaze, looked down on me from the corner of his eyes, for all the world as if there were some mortal feud unavenged between us. I began to doubt whether he were a servant or not: his lack of pantaloons and his speech were both quite rude, entirely devoid of the True American superiority observable in the Emperor and Empress Tromp; his thick brown curls were rough and uncultivated, his whiskers encroached bearishly over his cheeks, and his hands were embrowned like those of a common laborer: still his bearing was free, almost haughty, and he showed none of a domestic's assiduity in attending on the lady of the house. In the absence of clear proofs of his condition, I deemed it best to abstain from noticing his curious conduct and partial nudity; and, five minutes afterwards, the entrance of the God-Emperor relieved me, in some measure, from my uncomfortable state.

"You see, your Godliness, I am come, according to promise!" I exclaimed, assuming the cheerful; "and I fear I shall be weather-bound for half an hour at least, if you can afford me shelter during that space."

"Half an hour?" he said, shaking the white flakes of combusted #killallmen tweets from his clothes; "I wonder you should select the thick of an orbital bombardment to ramble about in. Do you know that you run a risk of being struck by a bioweapon out there? Even people familiar with the timecube tesseract within which Tromp Heights resides often miss their road on such evenings; and I can tell you there is no chance of a change at present. When we signed the peace treaty with the Feminazi party in 2050, we unfortunately had to agree to their terms that they could continue attacking us until we lost. Thankfully, we were able to infect their networks with vintage psy-op programs, developed as part of PROJECT TUMBLR in the 2010s. They've dismantled all their weapons, outlawed psychology, and spend all of their time maintaining a precise ecological balance of insanity and overzealous support for the insanities of other. When it became clear that such a society would never be able to defeat the American Empire, backchannels were opened, and we agreed to provide them with a decommissioned battlestation and the means to launch paper projectiles at Tromp Heights once a month as a symbolic gesture of America's submission to the Matriarchy. Honestly, it sucks, but it was way easier than trying to deal with those psychos living among us in the early days. Very few people outside of Tromp Tower are aware of the existence of these orbital bombardments at all."

"Perhaps I can get a guide among Jose, and he might stay at the Grange Suite till morning- could you spare me one?"

"Certainly, although there is no need for such a thing, I can simply teleport you to your bed whenever I wish."

"Are you gonna make the coffee yet?!" demanded he of the shabby coat and conspicuously absent drawers, shifting his ferocious gaze from me to the young lady.

"Is HE to have any?" she asked, appealing to the God-Emperor.

"Get it ready, will you?" was the answer, uttered so savagely that I started. The tone in which the words were said revealed the existence of a darker side, steeped in blackest ritual murder and the corrupting influence of the energies of raw Privilege. So much so that I no longer felt inclined to call the God-Emperor a capital fellow. When the preparations were finished (which is to say that Empress Ivanka had been thoroughly flogged for breaking the Keurig, and the Emperor and I had decided to drink radium-whiskey instead), he invited me with - "Now, sir, bring forward your chair." And we all, including the rustic, partially-nude youth, drew round the table: an austere silence prevailing while we began to consume quantities of calories far higher than our personal daily requirements.

I thought, if I had caused the pall which had been cast upon this potentially convivial gathering, it was my duty to make an effort to dispel it. They could not every day sit so grim and taciturn, the God-Emperor, the Empress Ivanka, and this inexplicable inexplicably semi-naked youth; and it was impossible, however ill-tempered they might be, that the universal scowl they wore was their every-day countenance.

"It is strange," I began, in the interval of swallowing one pint-glass of radium-whiskey and receiving another - "it is strange how custom can mold our tastes and ideas: many could not imagine the existence of happiness in a life of such complete exile from the world as you spend, Emperor Tromp; yet, I'll venture to say, that, surrounded by your family, and with your amiable lady as the presiding genius over your kitchen and heart - "

"My amiable lady!" he interrupted, with an almost diabolical sneer on his face. "You mean Ivanka?"

"Most Excellent and Holy God, your wife, the Pinnacle of Womanhood Her Holy Eminence the Empress Tromp, I mean."

"Well, yes - oh, you would intimate that her spirit might take the post of a ministering angel, and guard the fortunes of Tromp Heights, even when her body is gone. Is that it? That actually sounds pretty fuckin' cool- let's do it!"

In a confused haze, I watched as the God-Emperor beheaded the Empress with his chainblade, then picked her up by the legs with one begauntleted hand and began to draw a madcap symbol of sorts on the vaulted ceiling above us, using the spurting, gory stump of her neck as some kind of hellish pen-tip. As I looked on in abject horror, I saw the blood begin to flow across the planes of the timecube tesseract and imbue it with a phantom luminescence.

Then in a flash, the clown at my elbow, who had, until the present instant under scrutiny, been guzzling radium-whiskey from a basin and eating his bread with unwashed hands, looked up from his uncouth repast in response to a knock at the door. A knock which I had entirely missed in my awe-struck transfixion at the Empress' execution and, much to my onlooking horror, subsequent transdimensional crucifixion. Before my feverish eyes the scene swam like a mirage from the fabled oases of the early Terrorists. I saw the lad leap to attention at once and fly to the double doors- flinging them open with a great clatter. This explosive feat of athleticism performed, he slunk back to his seat in exhaustion, sat down with an audible thud, and resumed his animal grazing.

It was with the sole occupant of that space between the threshold and the world, revealed, in stark contrast to the snowy ash which drifted down behind - at that very moment; illuminated she was, picked out by the crack and spark of a nearby Tesla coil, stretching miles above in ghastly industrial splendor. "Allow me to present my daughter-in-law," boomed the God-Emperor over a fresh flagon of radium-whiskey, with which he gestured, as if with a lecture-pointer. I noted, as he boomed, a peculiar look in her direction: a look of hatred; unless he has a most perverse set of facial muscles that will not, like those of other people, interpret the language of his soul- a distinct possibility in this twisted nightmare world in which we live.

"Ah, certainly - I see now: you are the favored possessor of the beneficent fairy," gesturing to the room's latest occupant, a radiant gossamer-winged beauty, with the distinctive pointed ear-tips that mark the subjects of the Fey kingdoms. When I turned back to face my neighbour I marked that I had made yet another blunder: the youth grew crimson, and clenched his powerfist, my cybernetic threat-assessment implants began to blare "MEDITATED ASSAULT IMMINENT" over and over within my mind. My adrenal gland output-limiters slotted open, and I felt the berserker rage of my ancestors begin to come over me. My cyberlenses engaged, casting a crimson filter over the scene. I centered the uncouth youth in my vision, and thumbed the power stud on my Privilege field emitter. He seemed to recollect himself presently at this, and smothered the storm with a brutal curse upon a particular caste of sub-Joses; from that day on, those poor individuals were born with voices that uttered only the dying screams of the damned, and eyes that saw only the Blood God's mouth.

"Unhappy in your conjectures, sir," observed my host; "we neither of us have the privilege of owning the good fairy; her mate is dead. I said she was my daughter-in-law: therefore, she must have married my son."

"And this young man is -"

"...Not my son, I assure you. Only the clones of the National Rifle Association can claim me as father." The Emperor smiled again, as if it were rather too bold a jest to attribute the paternity of that bear to him.

"My name's Rafa McGee," and you'd better respect it!"

"I've shown no disrespect," was my reply, laughing internally at the dignity with which he announced himself, considering his visible condition.

He fixed his eye on me for longer than I cared to return the stare, for fear I might be tempted either to box his ears or render my hilarity audible. I began to feel unmistakably out of place in that unpleasant family circle. The dismal psychic atmosphere overcame, and more than neutralized, the glowing physical and paraphysical comforts round me; and I resolved to be cautious how I ventured onwards and upwards to this, the crown jewel of the Empire, a second (...or was it third?) time.

The business of eating being concluded rapidly following this juncture, and no one of us assembled three uttering a word of sociable conversation, I approached a window to examine the weather. A sorrowful sight I saw: dark night come prematurely, and sky and hills mangled in one bitter whorl of wind and suffocating pamphlet-ash.

"I don't think it possible for me to get home now without a guide," I could not help exclaiming. "The roads will be buried already; and, if they were bare, I could scarcely distinguish a foot in advance, and that's without mentioning the potential biohazard risk!"

"Rafa, drive those dozen tanks into the bunker. They'll be covered in ash if we leave them on the parade ground all night: and wax them all," said the God-Emperor nonchalantly.

"What must I do?" I continued, with rising irritation.

There was no reply to my question; and on looking round I saw only Jose bringing in the day's supply of food for the animal-persons in the fighting and breeding pits beneath Tromp Heights, and the good fairy, a creature whose name I have since learned to be "Tinkerbelle," diverting herself with burning a bundle of soul-diamonds which had fallen from the mantle over one of the crematoria as she restored the canisters of K-cups to their place there, from where they had fallen from the late Ivanka's hands. The former, when he had deposited his burden, took a critical survey of the room, and in computerized tones cracked out a perfect rendition of "Bittersweet Samba," off Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass's album "Whipped Cream & Other Delights."

I imagined, for a moment, that this piece of music was addressed to me, and, sufficiently enraged, I unlimbered my assault weapon and began firing high-caliber armor-piercing assault bullets from my extended assault magazine-clip into Jose. Tinkerbelle, however, checked me in my spree by extending a sequined wing to protect Jose; to my infinite surprise, my rounds pinged off her wing as if it was covered in some kind of protective force-field. She surprised me again when, once the din of my would-be rampage had echoed away into nothingness, she began to rail against Jose quite viciously in her own right.

"You scandalous old hypocrite!" she screamed in a sultry bellow, impressive for one of her size and frame, "Are you not afraid of being carried away bodily, whenever you mention the devil's name? I warn you to refrain from provoking me, or I'll ask your deportation as a special favor! Stop! Look here, Jose," she continued, taking a long, black book from somewhere behind a decidedly non-Euclidean corner of the timecube tesseract; "I'll show you how far I've progressed in the Black Art: I shall soon be competent to make a clear house of it. The red planet didn't explode by chance; and your laziness can hardly be reckoned among providential visitations!"

"Tenía en su casa una ama que pasaba de los cuarenta, y una sobrina que no llegaba a los veinte, y un mozo de campo y plaza, que así ensillaba el rocín como tomaba la podadera," gasped Jose in a voice like the dying screams of the damned; "!Frisaba la edad de nuestro hidalgo con los cincuenta años; era de complexión recia, seco de carnes, enjuto de rostro, gran madrugador y amigo de la caza!"

"No, reprobate! You are a castaway - be off, or I'll hurt you. Seriously. I'll have you all modeled in wax and clay! And the first who passes the limits I fix shall - I'll not say what he shall be done with - but, you'll see! Go, I'm looking at you!"

The little witch put a mock malignity into her beautiful, special eyes, and Jose, trembling with sincere horror, hurried out, praying, and ejaculating wickedly as it/they went. I thought her conduct must be prompted by a species of dreary fun; and, now that we were alone, I endeavored to interest her in my distress.

"Tinkerbelle," I said earnestly, "you must excuse me for troubling you, I presume, because, with that face, I'm sure you cannot help being good-hearted. Do point out some landmarks by which I may know my way home: I have no more idea how to get there than you would have how to get to Neptune!"

"Take the road you came in on," she answered, ensconcing herself on a loveseat, with a candle- the long book seated upon her lap. "It is brief advice, but as sound as I can give."

"Then, if you hear of me being discovered dead in the knife dimension or a pit full of ash, your conscience won't whisper that it is partly your fault?"

"How so? I cannot escort you. They wouldn't let me go to the end of the garden wall."

"YOU! I should be sorry to ask you to cross the threshold again for my convenience, on such a night," I cried. "I want you to tell me my way, not to SHOW it: or else to persuade the God-Emperor to give me a guide."

"Who? There is himself, McGee, Janice, Jose, and I. Which would you have?"

"Are there no Space Marines at Tromp Heights?"

"No; those are all."

"Then, it follows that I am compelled to stay."

"That you may settle with your host. I have nothing to do with it."

"I hope it will be a lesson to you to make no more rash journeys on these hills," boomed the Emperor's voice from the pleasure-dens below. "As to staying here, I don't keep accommodations for visitors: you must share a bed with McGee or Jose, if you do."

"I can sleep on a chair in this room," I replied in a blind panic.

"No, no! A stranger is a stranger, be he rich or poor: it will not suit me to permit anyone the range of the place while I am in cryosleep!" said the Emperor, in an altogether more churlish fashion than that which I had observed upon first meeting him.

With this insult my patience was at an end. I uttered an expression of disgust, and pushed past the God-Emperor into the yard, running against McGee in my haste. It was so dark that I could not see the means of exit; and, as I wandered round, I heard another specimen of their "civil" behaviour amongst each other. At first the young britchless man appeared about to befriend me.

"I'll go with him as far as the park," he said.

"You'll go with him to Hell!" exclaimed his and my master, the God-Emperor of Mankind. "And who is to look after the tanks, eh?"

"A man's life is of more consequence than one evening's neglect of a tiny spring in the vast machine of the military-industrial complex: somebody must go," murmured Tinkerbelle, more kindly than I expected.

"Not at your command!" retorted McGee. "If you set store on him, you'd better be quiet."

"Then I hope his ghost will haunt you; and I hope the God-Emperor will never get another tenant til the Grange Suite is a ruin," she growled, sharply.

"Quieren decir que tenía el sobrenombre de Quijada, o Quesada, que en esto hay alguna diferencia en los autores que deste caso escriben; aunque, por conjeturas verosímiles, se deja entender que se llamaba Quejana," muttered Jose, towards whom I had been steering.

A tiny village sat within earshot, where a group of sub-Joses sat milking the cows by the light of a lantern, which I seized unceremoniously, and, calling out that I would send it back on the morrow, rushed to the nearest postern.

"!Pero esto importa poco a nuestro cuento; basta que en la narración dél no se salga un punto de la verdad!" shouted an ancient sub-Jose, pursuing my retreat. "!Es, pues, de saber que este sobredicho hidalgo, los ratos que estaba ocioso, que eran los más del año, se daba a leer libros de caballerías, con tanta afición y gusto, que olvidó casi de todo punto el ejercicio de la caza, y aun la administración de su hacienda!" screamed Jose in unison.

At this incomprehensible outcry, an unholy stampede of animal-persons came galloping and sprinting from out the pits below, flying at my throat, bearing me down, bearing down on me, and extinguishing the light; while a mingled guffaw from the God-Emperor and McGee put the copestone on my rage and humiliation. Fortunately, the beasts seemed more bent on stretching their paws, and working their jaws, and flourishing their tails about, than devouring me alive; but they would not be denied their romp, and I was forced to lie till their malignant masters pleased to deliver me: then, helmetless and trembling with wrath, I ordered the miscreants to let me out - on their peril to keep me one minute longer - with several incoherent threats of retaliation that, in their indefinite depth of futility, smacked of a child trying to take out a battlestar with a kiss.

The vehemence of my agitation brought on another berserk rage, and still the God-Emperor laughed, and still I scolded, which is to say that I wrought thermonuclear holocaust upon the timecube tesseract. I don't know what would have concluded the scene, had there not been one person at hand rather more rational than myself, and more benevolent than the God I refer to here as my entertainer (although I suspect that our broader roles are quite reversed, in point of truth). This was Janice, the aged, spindly housewife; who at length issued forth from her cupboard to inquire into the nature of the uproar. She thought that some of them had been laying violent hands on me; and, not daring to attack the God-Emperor, she turned her vocal artillery against the younger scoundrel.

"Well WELL, 'MISTER' MgGee," she cried, tongue sharp as a vibro-knife, "Let's just MURDER people on the PERSIAN RUG I JUST CLEANED, why don't we?" I can't live like this another MINUTE - look at the poor sweet boy, he's CHOKING! SHAME, SHAME on YOU, McGee. Come in here, darling, and I'll fix ya right up: there now, hold STILL."

With these words she suddenly vented a canister of liquid nitrogen into my cooling system, and pulled me into the kitchen. The God-Emperor followed, his accidental merriment expiring quickly in what I now know to be his habitual moroseness.

I was sick exceedingly, and dizzy, and faint; and thus compelled perforce to accept lodgings under the God-Emperor's roof. He told Janice to give me a glass of brandy, and then passed on to the inner room; while she condoled with me on my sorry predicament, and having obeyed the Emperor's orders, whereby I was somewhat revived, ushered me to my cryosleep chamber.


End file.
